Guarded
by Wolf's Avarice
Summary: Connor's courage and tenacity are the strengths that define him, yet he guards his heart from the greatest vulnerability of all. Their fates are intertwined, but when the truth is revealed, he can choose only one: the love of his life, or the duty to his destiny. Mature content. (Connor/OC)


Attention: Please only read if you have played and FINISHED the main campaign of Assassin's Creed 3! This story contains spoilers (psst, Haytham's a Templar) and other tasty nuggets that are imperative to the plot and could spoil the enjoyment of your game if you've not yet finished.

Anyway, on with the show. I've not actually read ANY other AC3 fanfics as I don't want to be inspired or encouraged by the ideas of someone else – so if there are any similarities in my story to another's work, they are purely unintentional, and I apologise. This is my first story uploaded to the site, and in commemoration of losing my fanfiction virginity, I want to make this story as special and intriguing as possible. The main focus will be the romance between Connor and my OC, which will get fairly heated in later chapters (if you catch my drift!), so if that's not your cuppa tea, then close this page on your browser, put your head between your legs, and suck your own arse.

I have a loose plotline that I'm going to follow, but the finer details are ever-changing and open to suggestion, so please feel free to leave a review letting me know what you'd like to see in future chapters. Also feel free to leave a comment correcting any historical inaccuracies that you find, as I am putting a lot of effort into researching all of my facts regarding 18th century lifestyle to ensure the story is as accurate and believable as possible. For example… I'm not going to use the word 'fuck' in my story whatsoever. Not because I think it's vulgar. I love fuck. However, its origin is uncertain, and therefore it is unclear what era the word 'fuck' actually became a swear word, rather than simply a crude verb in poetry. It would have rarely been used in common speech during the 1700's, or at best it would have been seen as unacceptable and disgusting, so I'm not going to use it (besides, those Englishmen had a far more imaginative and colourful vocabulary that I can have even more fun with). Also, I use Australian English, so there's no need to correct my variant spelling, please. ^^

Each chapter will have an excerpt of lyrics from a song that I believe is relevant, so please do listen to the song if you want to fully engage with the story! :D Hopefully some will be familiar to you, and others will be new, and I'll try to mix up the genres as best I can. ENJOY.

Song Reference: Doorway by Civil Twilight

_Cold lips, cold hands, cold feet on the street_

_There's no shelter from the heart's beat_

_Faster and faster_

_The winds blow down from the north_

_Sweeping these streets like ghosts on a march to war_

_A march to war_

_Outside, there's a silhouette_

_Changing her name, changing her face_

_Every time I look away_

_We sway in the yellow light_

_With no more strength to fight_

_So many dreams that fade away_

_So many lives we just can't save_

_If you wanted this so bad_

_Then why do you stand like you do_

_In the doorway?_

* * *

**Early Autumn, 1769**

"Ah- shit!"

The knife slipped from between my fingers, clattering against the polished wooden floor; the offending weapon gleams exultantly as I reach to pick it up, and then gently place it on the bench beside me. "Please, mind your language." Achilles' steady voice exudes both condescension and amusement, his brusque chuckle resounding from somewhere behind me. Rolling my eyes, I run my finger against my lip and briefly suck the blood welling from the open cut, muttering under my breath.

"Damn knives."

"Language," his grating voice hardens sternly as I hear him enter into the kitchen, his uneven pace interrupted by the occasional _thud_ of his walking cane. "Perhaps a vegetable knife is a slight too advanced for you… a wooden spoon might better suit your talents."

"Hilarious," I return his mockery with deadpan sarcasm, though I cannot suppress the broad smile that breaks my blank façade. "Have you come in here just to ridicule me, or are you actually going to help with dinner?" I look over to him expectantly, hand on hip, and though he does not outwardly smile I see the corners of his eyes crinkle in mirth. His dark skin appears somewhat weathered in the natural light filtering in through the kitchen windows, the afternoon glow becoming dimmer as the sky became more overcast. A thoughtful expression softens my face as my gaze lingers at the window and then back to Achilles. "Perhaps you should rest your back, old man."

The term of endearment causes a soft chuckle to wrack his shoulders, but almost immediately he winces in discomfort. A murmur of concern hums through my body as I approach him, placing my hand at the small of his curved back, rubbing gently to ease the tension. It still astounds me how significantly the hunch to his spine has shortened his stature, my full height now a generous inch or two above his.

"Please, Elain, stop fussing over me." My brows furrow in concern, but I say nothing as I withdraw my hand from his back, placing a light kiss on his forehead in affection. "Then go and sit down. I'll bring over a cup of tea once I get this stew simmering." I sense his pause, contemplating whether to stay or go, before a sigh resounds from his nostrils in defeat as he turns to limp through to the living area. I turn my body back towards the kitchen bench, feeling somewhat guilty having patronised the stubborn old mule, but for his own benefit. Achilles' pride and persistence often drove him to exerting himself beyond what was healthy for a man of his age. Sometimes he needed to be forced to rest, whether willing or not.

Ensuring that the strings to my apron were still tied securely, I set myself to work once again, fetching a clean knife, and then assembling the appropriate ingredients from various baskets and cupboards in the kitchen. Turnips, celery, carrots – I take a mental note as I set each vegetable onto the bench. Humming pleasantly to myself, something that was sure to irritate Achilles, I pared and sliced the turnips slowly to ensure that this time my fingers would avoid the knife's keen edge. As the pot of water on the open hearth began to bubble, I transferred the turnips into the boiling cauldron and then added generous amounts of pepper, nutmeg and sweet herbs. As promised, I set aside a dry quart of water in the kettle, and placed it carefully over the stove to heat. I inhale and indulge myself in a sigh, calmed by the spiced yet simple aroma. Of all of my household chores, cooking is possibly my favourite – though I am not a simple woman, I do delight myself in Achilles' approval when I prepare him something deserving of praise, and cherish the few moments that we spend together at the day's eve.

Hurriedly, I halve two whole onions and peel away their outer shells; I squint through the burning sensation in my eyes as I deftly quarter and dice the remaining segments, before the stinging finally overwhelms me and I turn my face to the side, blinking away a stray tear. Whickering at my own incompetence, I quickly rub my eyes with the back of my wrist, possibly making the sensation worse – suddenly, a knocking on the door resounds from the front entrance. My brows lift inquiringly; we were not expecting guests, to my knowledge, and the travellers that crossed our homestead were few and far between. This was certainly out of the ordinary.

Wiping my fingers onto my apron, still wet with the onions' juices, I step through to the front room and pass by Achilles, who is slumped tiredly into a derelict armchair. "Are you expecting anyone today?" I inquire offhandedly, and though he does not respond, the uncertainty in his expression answers my question. A second barrage of knocking echoes from the front door, the intensity becoming more urgent. Huffing at the stranger's rudeness, I make my way to the front entrance and unlock the door.

"Someone had better be dying!" The impatience in my voice is apparent as I yank the door open, although immediately my expression softens in surprise at the figure standing before me. The boy appears youthful, yet troubled, possibly a year or so younger than myself. His dark, unkempt hair falls in wild disarray around his face, and his bronzed skin is far from European… a native, perhaps. He stares at me in silence for a great deal of time, his expression solemn and thoughtful, as though expecting someone entirely different. His eyes search behind me in confusion.

"…Can I help you?" My voice disperses the tension between us as I offer a welcoming smile. My tone is now much more pleasant than my initial greeting in the hope of enticing him to speak. He hesitates, and finally his gaze meets mine as his lips break their silence.

…_**Earlier that day…**_

Leaving home was harder than I thought. I expected the journey would fill me with a sort of pride... a sense of accomplishment. But whatever it was that carried me away from home soon fled, replaced by questions – and no small amount of doubt. Had I been too hasty? Had I made a mistake? The others in the village, they thought this was something I wanted, something I chose to do. But it never felt that way to me. No. It was not a choice. It was an obligation. Because if not me - then who?

The clouds seemed an infinite veil of white; the sky yawning open endlessly over the Frontier to meet with the edge of the world, where the clouds darkened the horizon. A steady sigh leaves my chest as I sit, adrift in thought, my legs hanging carelessly over the cliff's coarse edge. It was incredible how my view of the entire world had changed in a single day, in one obscure encounter. The strange spirit's words echoed lucidly in my mind, her meaning clear, but her intentions vague. _For now, you must follow. Leading is for later._

Follow what, or who? And to what end? Whose cause was I serving? So many questions filled my head; questions that had been planted deliberately by the spirit woman who spoke to me, in a dark world she called the "Nexus". Her cryptic words left me with nothing but uncertainty and questions, yet her voice still rang sharp and true. _Time will see them answered._

Again, I sigh, this time out of frustration rather than contemplation. I felt angered by my own ignorance, though it seemed that it was the spirit's intention to leave me oblivious to the path I was meant to follow. Readjusting the bow from digging into my shoulder blade, I stand, and turn away from the cliff drop and the wide expanse of forestry at my feet. Both the spirit woman and my clan mother spoke of a man who lived to the East of our village – I was to search for a strange symbol as shown to me in the Nexus to continue on with my journey. The thought sounded ludicrous in my head – how would I find a single man with naught but a direction to follow?

Perhaps I could do nothing but rely on instinct. If this was the path I was set upon, fate would bring me to my destination. I look thoughtfully up to the trees, deliberating whether to travel along their branches, but the heavy load on my back makes me decide otherwise, and I set along the dirt trail by foot.

Walking consumed the majority of my day. My calves ached from their uphill struggle, until I breach the shaded recluse of the trees and stand atop the Northeastern apex of the frontier. My village is long vanished from view, though the ocean is still visible on the distant horizon. I run both hands through my hair, my fingers twining with the countless knots, and inhale the dampening air through my nostrils. The wind brings a promise of rain; I relish in the sheer and musky essence trapped in the breeze, and despite my inner turmoil, I smile.

Beyond where I am standing is a steep vale of trees unlike the Frontier – a tidy roadway winds through the forest and disappears from view, though I can only assume it meets with the far wooden bridge scarcely visible through the distant trees. This valley seems… quaint, and untroubled – hares scamper soundlessly through the tall grasses, apparently unhindered by hunters. Birds call out from their tall perches, impishly flitting from branch to branch like joyful fools. Such serenity did not exist in the Frontier, where lesser creatures survived in hushed fear, and the forests remained still and dangerous. Silence foreboded predators - not safety or peace.

This land spoke to me in a warm and unfamiliar language; it greeted me and promised safety, in the same way a mother beckons a child, assuring it with a gentle hand. My own mother's face appears in my mind and I feel my heart gently sink, the loss still bearing down an infinite weight inside me.

As my eyes wander over the new land awaiting me, I notice a building nestled atop the crest of a cliff, the steep overhang meeting with the still waters of the sea – and much like a lighthouse overlooking the ocean, it shines brilliantly like a beacon of hope. Perhaps my answers could be found there, or perhaps I would find yet another dead-end. There was only one way to know for certain.

The further I walk, the more distinct the house's features become. I realise that I had underestimated two aspects of it – its size, and its condition. The house was so vast it was more of a manor than the quaint farmhouse I had pictured, and the peeling paint and tarnished exterior accentuate its poor state. The house appeared so derelict that it made me question whether it had been abandoned; my pace slows down as I reconsider my wasted journey, but I then notice the plumes of smoke streaming from the chimneys. Out of curiosity more than necessity, I decide to continue on.

Finally, the large house stands before me in all of its decrepit glory. I stand still for a moment or two, deliberating on how I might present myself to whoever would greet me at the door. My mind remained blank – I truly had no idea _who_ I was supposed to be asking for, nor the intent behind my visit. Breathing anxiously, I approach the front porch and knock on the door with my fist, hoping that the words would simply come to me.

Silence. I stood back from the door apprehensively, glancing towards the windows for a sign of movement. I raise my eyes upwards to the windows on the second floor, yet the glass is so discoloured I can barely see through. Gritting my teeth, I glance behind me, now certain that this journey had been in vain, but I steeled my diffidence and assertively knocked again. On the final knock my knuckles met with air as the door was immediately wrenched open. I tensed in expectation, ready to speak; yet the surprising figure in the doorway rendered me speechless. It was a girl – not a man, as the spirit woman and my clan mother had prepared me for. I'd anticipated that someone older and more daunting would greet me, yet here I stand, dumbfounded by a pale, harmless girl.

The first thing I notice about her is the colour of her eyes. Immediately, I feel wary and withdrawn from her; the only other person I've seen with eyes so bright is Charles Lee. Her irises burn into me with the very same fervour, much more vibrant and pale than the blue of a clear sky, yet the fierce set to her jaw relaxes in curiosity. I stare, despite the fact that I knew it to be rude, noticing that the blueness of her gaze shone with a hidden trace of turquoise unlike the sky, but as though it was the sky's reflection upon the ocean. I swallow, wanting words to form in my mouth, but my tongue and lips are reluctant to move.

Her round eyes appear red and tender, a residue of tears gleaming along the rims, obscured only by a few strands of hair that had somehow liberated themselves from her side-plait. It is then that I notice her strange beauty; she is unlike any of the women in my village. Her stature is tall, rivaling my own, yet her frame is not lean or slender – it is soft, and curved, and pleasantly different to the compact bodies of the women I had grown up with. Distracted by the dangerous hue of her eyes, I'd barely noticed any other features until now – her petite nose that curves upwards at the tip, the defined cupid's bow of her full lips, even the curious arch to her brows crowns her eyes handsomely. Each feature is pretty in itself, but when combined - breathtaking. The beauty does not end at her neck, but continues downwards. Her waist is small, but her breasts and hips flare in the most intriguing way, accentuated by the apron clinging to her shapely form. I avert my eyes - I had never understood the appeal of a white woman until now.

This isn't right – I must be at the wrong place. I briefly glance behind her to see if there were any other people visible from the doorway, and though I cannot see anyone, a pleasant, rich smell wafts out like a welcome breath of invitation. My tongue moistens at the flavour.

"Can I help you?" her voice has a kindly lilt, a smile spreading across her heart-shaped lips. The gesture does not ease my distrust of her; my brows furrow in contemplation as a frown hardens my face. My lips finally obey. "I… I'm not sure."

Well, what now? I stare blankly at her, my gaze shifting from her piercing eyes to the ground – almost as if on cue, my stomach growls in appeal at the aroma radiating from her home, and I inwardly scowl in embarrassment. She laughs sweetly in response, though she does not question me further, apparently kind enough not to dwell on my discomfort. "Well, I've never let a hungry traveller starve on my account. Would you like to join us for dinner?" Her hand lingers on the doorknob as she smiles warmly.

The prospect of food lifts my dampened spirit as I consider accepting her offer, before I'm struck with realisation at her words. _Join us for dinner._ There was someone else inside – perhaps the man I have been searching for. Before I can reply, a shrill whistling echoes from somewhere within the house, causing the woman in the doorway to turn around in a startle. The confusion on her face phases to comprehension. "Oh crap - the kettle!"

She turns to croon a hasty apology in my direction and then swiftly disappears from sight, leaving the door slightly ajar in her rush. I stand in silence – a pleasantly mildewed aroma lingers heavily in the air, a sign that the rain will soon come. I press my cold lips together in thought.

Perhaps fate would have me join these people for dinner – the bleak weather and dimming sky only seem to encourage me to seek the shelter and warmth of her home, if only temporarily. I link my fingers together anxiously. Hearing a faint shuffling, I return my attention to the doorway in time to see a dark-skinned man appear, his stern expression fixated upon me. Despite the frailty of his age, he has a foreboding presence that both threatens and comforts me – this is definitely him, the man I am searching for. It has to be.

"What do you want, boy?"

His roughened voice matches his guarded exterior, though I am far too resolute in my ambition to be warded off by his unfriendliness. I draw in a calm breath. "I was… told you could train me." At my words, the man deflates, concealing a pained expression as he looks away. His hand grips the doorknob with a vague shake of his head, displeasure apparent in his austere frown. "No."

He shuts the door in my face. I stand back, bewildered by his blunt performance. Anger veers from my stomach to my fists as I beat indignantly against the door, unwilling to accept his refusal. I had too much to lose to simply walk away now. There was too much resting on me!

"_Go away!"_

His voice growls fiercely from behind the door, but I stay rooted to the spot. "I'm not leaving!" I retort immediately, though silence is his response. I stand a moment longer, a huff escaping through my clenched teeth. Knocking again would be futile – for now. I step down from the stone porch and glance to the side of the house, searching for somewhere secure and dry to set up a quick camp. The ragged barn with its doors skewed open seems almost too conveniently placed to deem as safe, yet I cannot afford the luxury of being fussy. My eyes linger on the windows of the house one final time. "You are not getting rid of me so easily, old man…" the words were murmured under my breath, yet they were not without the resolute and fearless tone that my voice naturally held.

As I make my way towards the timeworn barn, my face catches the first droplets of rain as they descend from their skyward home – it feels cold against my cheek, but reviving to my senses; my anger quickly resolves and I can breathe easily. Brushing away remnants of hay with my boot, I settle my bedroll on the wood panel flooring, a stifled murmur leaving my lips as I kick the roll open. A crack of thunder rumbles in the distance, and somehow, the evening seems to darken at the sound, rather than illuminate. Rain falls heavier against the roof and I lay on my improvised bed, waiting for sleep to console me.

If only it could be so easy.

…_**Later…**_

"He's in the barn, you know." I lift the spoon of steaming stew to my mouth, the coldness of the spoon and the heat of the broth creating an odd sensation on my lips. "That boy."

I watch Achilles' eat in silence from the opposite end of the table, apparently too engrossed in his dinner to glance up. I'm not sure whether to feel flattered that he might be enjoying it so intently, or irritated that he is using it as a ruse to ignore me. I huff at his childish antic. My brows lift inoffensively as I tap my spoon against the table, once, twice, thrice – the incessant rhythm serves its purpose as his hand stills, clearly irked by the ceaseless clinking. Now he's listening.

"I cannot believe you sent him away, Achilles. I invited him in," my voice pauses as he suddenly lifts his somber eyes to me. "You made me look like a complete moron." No emotion falters his deadpan expression as he lifts a folded napkin to wipe his lips, purposefully delaying his response.

"Hardly a feat you make difficult, Elain."

I shake my head and return to my dinner, hiding my subtle smile in an attempt to maintain my stern composure. He wasn't fooled for a moment. I speak again, this time attempting to include a diplomatic outlook in my words. "There was no need to be so unkind. He'd done nothing to endanger us, nor spoke offensively. He's a harmless native, for goodness sake," my tone ascends in fervour, but it is clear my words are ineffectual.

"He has no business here." Achilles' gravelly voice sobers in finality, and as my lips fall open to speak, I stop myself. We continue eating in wordless discomfort, though I am thankful for the steady beating of rain against the roof as it softens the harsh edge of silence.

After dinner, I clear the table and topple the dishes into a pile in the kitchen; without looking at Achilles, I begin preparing a basin of cold water and soap. We hadn't enough firewood or coin to afford heating water for the purpose of washing dishes – most of our hot water went towards cooking and bathing, which meant I had to use a coarse scourer to scrape and polish the pots and dishes until they were so clean they shone.

By the time my fingers had become pale and pruned, a stack of fresh kitchenware stood uniformly along the bench, still glistening with the residues of foamy soap. I grasp the heavy basin of murky water in both arms and carry it outside, tipping it out along the dirt path – my attention is drawn to the barn, which is scarcely visible through the darkness and rain.

I shiver, emptying the final dregs of water onto the ground, trying to distract myself from my sympathy for that boy. Rain runs down my neck and along my spine, the icy sensation eliciting a quiver in the pit of my stomach As I step back into the warmth of the manor, thankful that Achilles had decided to light all of the fireplaces before dusk, I realise that the ache in my conscience is not sympathy, but guilt. Here I am, preparing to go to bed with a full stomach, in a comfy bed surrounded by the warmth and safety of a house. That boy was sleeping empty-bellied in naught but a rickety shed, with doors that didn't stay closed, suffering through the freezing storm alone.

Almost as if hearing my thoughts, Achilles' gruff cough echoed from behind me, followed by his surly voice. "Elain…"

"Achilles." I answered immediately, a comically pleasant smile masking my discontent. "How can I help you."

"I'll be going to bed now – but I need to ask two things of you so I can rest easy." The polite tone to his voice caused my brow to quirk in interest. He said 'ask' as though I had the freedom to obey or not, which was a rare liberty. The old coot was actually trying to reason with me – he must have been worried, though hiding it well. I nod, unable to conceal the amusement from my eyes as I untie my apron and lift it casually over my neck. "Go on," my voice drawls on the final consonant, unrolling the sleeves of my dress.

"Firstly, I would ask you to leave that native boy alone tonight. I mean it, Elain." I nod inattentively as I unbraid my russet hair into a loose cascade that fell past my shoulders, my harmless smile not revealing my intent to explicitly disobey that request.

"Secondly - as you are inevitably going to ignore my rules - when you do decide to sneak out and see him, please bring something with you."

My smile quickly turned to a frown, unsure of the implications behind his words. "You mean… a knife?" The idea of using a knife against anything other than a vegetable horrified me. "I hardly think I'll need to bring a knife just to speak with the poor lad."

"Nevertheless, Elain, I saw a hand axe on his waist and a bow on his back. I imagine he has a multitude of weapons concealed on him." My brows lifted incredulously. I hadn't even noticed that he was armed, clearly too engrossed in the sadness of his expressions, the light brown of his eyes, the brooding slant to his mouth…

"There is no sin in being careful." Achilles' words brought me back from my stupor, and I nod, unsure of what to say now that I was reconsidering it altogether. I gaze down, almost ashamed of my naivety, which prompts a sympathetic grin from Achilles. The expression loosens the wrinkles around his eyes, his face becoming more youthful in his understanding of my confliction. He places a frail hand on my shoulder, before turning away, leaving me standing in the kitchen with a dilemma on my mind.

If I helped this boy, would I be endangering myself? Or were these thoughts merely the paranoia of an aged man, his suspicion and overprotective nature culminating to assume the very worst. I exhale a fierce breath in thought as I approach the open hearth, the embers still glowing faintly with heat, the pot of stew sitting soundly atop it. My fingers tentatively touch the iron rim – still warm. Sighing, I gather a bowl and ladle before rationality changes my mind.

The rain had ebbed to a light peppering by the time I stepped outside, clad in a heavy overcoat that I'd had since I was thirteen – the buttons strain to meet over my chest, so I didn't hassle myself with fastening them together. I squint through the darkness, my hair billowing and my open coat fluttering in the wind; I can feel the warm rush of air through my lips, but cannot hear my own breathing. A small oil lantern dangles from my wrist, casting a dim halo of light at my feet, whilst both hands grip a large bowl containing the stew - a peace offering.

I tread delicately towards the barn, mindful of the dark puddles that pooled haphazardly in the mud, until the wet squelching of my shoes becomes the soft sound of wood underfoot. I blink tiredly as my eyes grow accustom to the dark, yet as I peer between the open doors, I see only emptiness. A vacant bedroll lies out of place amidst the barrels, tools and hay – a sign that I knew he'd not left for good, though he was nowhere to be seen. I press my lips together. For my own peace of mind, I knelt down and placed the bowl beside his bedding, along with a portion of corn bread wrapped in cloth. Out of curiosity, my fingers trace along the coarse fabric of his bedroll; my mouth turns down at the corners, disapproving of its poor thickness. I scowl at my own uselessness – of course, I should have brought him a spare blanket!

Eventually I stand, dusting off my dress out of habit, and turn to retreat back to the safety of the manor – yet in my haste and obliviousness I walk straight into something firm and warm. I gasp – the lantern drops to the floor with a clatter and I fall back, heart beating so heavily I can feel my pulse throbbing in my throat. As I stumble, my shoulder blades connect suddenly with the wall, my eyes wide and startled like a cornered doe. The rapid rising and falling of my chest steadies as I regain my breath.

The dark shape doesn't move. The dying flame from the lamp flickers ominously, illuminating only his mouth and chin. I cannot fathom his expression as his eyes are obscured in darkness. My lips tremble, unsure of who should speak first.

He doesn't keep me waiting for long.

"What are you doing?" His tone is low and guarded, clearly displeased with my company. His voice is much darker than I remembered it. Perhaps Achilles was right – this boy was dangerous, and blinded by my sympathy, I simply hadn't noticed. I swallow the lump in my throat before I manage to draw enough courage to open my mouth.

"I… " My lungs run out of breath. I can feel my cheeks flushing at my speechless idiocy.

"I meant what I said… about not letting a traveller starve. I brought you d-dinner." I stutter on the final word and inwardly curse, my voice calm and clear up until then. His chin tips downwards to glance at the bowl, and for a moment the light catches his entire face; the hollows of his cheek bones, the angular set to his jaw, the noble shape of his brows all becoming visible, until he returns his gaze to me.

"What is it?" His voice remains stoic, which does not ease my discomfort. In my panic to answer him, I completely misinterpret the question.

"It's a bowl." We both stare at each other dumbly.

I could've sworn that I saw his lips darken into a smirk, but the humour quickly vanishes from his expression. Realising my mistake, I hurry to correct myself. "I-I mean, it's – sorry – it's turnip soup."

He doesn't take his attention from me, to my distress. Though I still can't see his eyes, I imagine them gleaming in some predatory way, and I fidget under the heat of his unseen gaze. He stands rigidly in the doorway, blocking my exit, and his silhouette cast by the moonlight remains unnervingly still.

"Why are you afraid." His tone doesn't lift innocently in question – it was a statement, a demand. I shudder at the sound, but also because I have no answer. Achilles' words repeat in my mind as though they might instill some wisdom into me.

"I don't know you – it's hardly unreasonable for me to be cautious. There's no sin in being careful." A sense of assurance underlies my voice, though my words clearly don't have the effect I was hoping for.

"Careful? You think that coming here alone, in the middle of the night, is being careful?"

I blink – he had a point. I really cannot fathom why I came here with such high hopes. What was I expecting? That I might bring him dinner, which he would dutifully thank me for, and then we would sit and regale each other with fond and whimsy tales of our childhood?

"You are either very selfless, or very stupid." Surprisingly, his words cut me deep.

"I suppose I came here because I _wanted_ to trust you. An easy mistake." My brows furrow indignantly, my tone soft yet sour. My confidence was, of course, entirely fake – I barely managed to subdue the trembling of my lips to speak without stuttering. His antagonism scared me, but the moment I allowed him to know that, the battle would be lost before it had begun.

"You speak of trust, yet the poorly concealed knife in your jacket suggests otherwise." I freeze. My inner breast pocket suddenly feels hot and uncomfortable against my skin. How on earth did he know? Was it when I bumped into him? I curse myself under my breath, which begins to shake in unease.

"You can hardly blame me. You have an _axe_ and… and God knows w-what else hidden on you!"

The apprehension in my voice is shamefully apparent now. His head tips slightly to the side, as though intrigued by my nervousness. I can see his fingers move slowly towards the weapon hanging menacingly against his hip. "If you think I have reason to use my tomahawk against you – perhaps I should."

He left the threat dangling midair, a stifling pause amidst the silence that followed his voice. In a panic, I grasp the knife from within my overcoat and point it towards him, both hands quaking unsteadily on the handle. Before I can even blink, his hand flourishes suddenly with much more grace than my own; the tomahawk slides expertly from its belt and brandishes in his sturdy grip.

My knife glints in the dim light, still glossy from the residues of its earlier wash. The sleekness of my weapon contrasts remarkably with the roughness of his; the coarse, stone surface of its blunt edge does not reflect any light at all, but somehow gleams darkly in his grasp. Neither of us speak. The only noise is the rasp of my erratic breathing, yet his breaths are so calm they scarcely make any sound at all.

We stand like this for an era of seconds, minutes, hours – time loses its bearing as I am engrossed in my measly defiance, and he in his stoic fortitude. I dare not move, and nor does he. The edge of my knife quivers, the only visible sign of my fear. I know that I'm going to lose – yet even with this knowledge breathing sense into my head, my body does not respond. It doesn't run, or flee. It doesn't hide or shy away. It merely waits.

How ironic, I think to myself, that the hostility between us only happened because I wanted to bring this boy dinner. A gesture that I thought kind is now merely a gesture of my own naivety; that I expected to befriend him demonstrates my ignorance in putting faith in the humility of strangers.

My fingers open, and the knife drops to the ground with a heavy thump. I do not take my eyes from him, though I expect that if he wished to attack me he would have done so already. I sigh, partly in defeat, and partly in exhaustion, no longer willing to entertain my own childishness any longer. "Enjoy your dinner."

I feel his stare burning into me as I pick up the fallen lantern and brush past him in a single, swift motion. I don't bother tiptoeing daintily through the mud – my shoes sink deep with every stride, and I am too jaded by the encounter to even care. My retreat is slow, but somehow dignified. I don't look back, knowing that he wouldn't have given me the same afterthought either.

As I enter the warmth of the house, my bones still feel frozen stiff. I feel hurt, and furious with myself, yet the more I dwell on my anger, the less it makes sense – and I am left feeling empty and wounded. I shed my coat and discard my shoes and socks carelessly on the floor, soundlessly bypassing Achilles' room, and hurry upstairs to collapse into my bed. A pitiful whimper escapes my composed façade, a sound that eludes even my own understanding, and I hide beneath the blanket and pillows, my damp hair piercingly cold against the heat of my neck. For the first time in years, I feel like a lost child in need of consoling.

If only it could be so easy.

* * *

_There's so many dreams that fade away_

_There's so many lives we just can't save_

_If we wanted this so bad_

_Then why do we stand like we do_

_In the doorway?_

_If this is it, then why do I wait?_

_All tangled up in the strings of fate_

_If I wanted this so bad_

_Then why do I stand like I do..._

That's all for now - feel free to review if the mood strikes. ^^ The next chapter may take a while, but hopefully will be out within the month! xxx


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